


All the Weary World

by Azzy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, M/M, Post Sweet Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:45:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzy/pseuds/Azzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“What the hell was that back there?” Starsky's question is quiet, and has the more impact for that; Hutch hunches over further, digging his hands deep into his pockets. “Huh? Was that some kind of, of macho -”</i></p><p><i>“Don't,” Hutch says to the frozen ground, his heart sinking. “Don't, Starsky.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Weary World

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the [S&H Advent Calendar 2011](http://starskyhutcharchive.net/advent/2011/).

Snowfall brings a strange kind of quiet to the night. Hutch breathes deeply, exhaling misty patterns that sparkle in the dim light from the cabin behind him; snowflakes land softly on his face when he tilts his head back, freezing feather-light caresses, fleeting and dreamlike.

The frozen landscape seems strange after so long in Bay City, like something out of another life, another existence entirely; he's no longer used to the cold, no longer used to the way thick gloves feel on his hands. The mountain air is icy and clean against the back of his throat, the eerie quiet so still that he could almost imagine himself alone in the world; it's Christmas Eve, and there is no traffic along the isolated road that winds up the mountain below.

“Hutch?”

He takes a moment before answering; just a moment, to make sure his voice doesn't give him away. “Hey, Starsk.”

“What the hell was that back there?” Starsky's question is quiet, and has the more impact for that; Hutch hunches over further, digging his hands deep into his pockets. “Huh? Was that some kind of, of macho -”

“Don't,” Hutch says to the frozen ground, his heart sinking. “Don't, Starsky.”

Starsky makes an impatient noise. “What, am I just supposed to let you go on thinkin' that kind of behaviour is goin' to work?” Footsteps crunch in the snow; Starsky's warmth presses against his right side, and Hutch makes the mistake of looking up for a second to find blue eyes watching him, intent. “Damn, Hutch,” Starsky says, low, breath misting the air between them. “You always could tie that head of yours up in some stupid knots.”

“You're the one tying the knots,” Hutch says, and doesn't know whether his unease shows on his face or in his voice. He glances down again, stares hard at the fresh-fallen snow as if it might hold all the answers.

“What'd you do if I did - that – again, huh? Right here?”

Hutch shifts uncomfortably. “Beats me why you'd want to, buddy, and that's the truth.”

“Try again, or kiss you in the first place?” Starsky asks. He sounds mildly curious, as if this is any ordinary conversation, but Hutch can still hear the tension in his voice. “Well, firstly, it was kinda nice – before you bolted, partner – and second, second -” he seems to falter, just for a second. “Hey, there was mistletoe; would've been a waste otherwise. And you looked – kissable.” Starsky's voice scrapes slightly on the last word before he clears his throat. “And don't pretend like y'don't know what I'm talkin' about, Blondie.”

Hutch is hardly going to forget.

The reasons against going away for Christmas, just the two of them, had been many. The expense hadn't been one of them; the problem was always going to be more along the lines of how the hell Hutch was going to survive a week alone with Starsky with all that slow-burning _something_ simmering between them the way it had ever since May.

Of course, it wasn't exactly something he could bring up as an objection; that particular subject seems to be – or, hell, _seemed_ to be; kissing under the damn mistletoe kind of seems to be bypassing the whole discussion thing – one about which they Do Not Talk. Not in a way that seems forced, but it just seems somehow more fitting to let the touches and the glances (and the way Starsky seems to be sleeping in the same bed as Hutch, these days) go unremarked upon; like the slow and sweet slide into something definite, something far more sincere than anything Hutch can put words to. It's not that he's afraid of it. He's just afraid to touch it in case it falls down in mocking icy dust around his feet.

“Listen,” Hutch says. “Listen. There are so many reasons – Starsky, Starsky, hell, I love you but I can't let you be a – a martyr to my wanting to keep you – it's just so soon. Isn't it? I get you back well and whole and then, then you're kissing me under the mistletoe and telling me I'm tying my own head up in knots when you can twist me any damn way you want to, you always -”

He is cut short by the warm pressure of Starsky's lips, closing over his with decisive suddenness, so much like everything Starsky does. Hutch grabs at Starsky's thick winter coat, shivers at cold fingers firm on the back of his neck; he doesn't know what to do, what to say, how to not-react to Starsky taking over like this, stealing his mouth and his heart and all the things he thought he had well under control.

This is different from the last time; the kiss under the mistletoe had been awkward and swift, and he'd been too shocked – horrified, almost, that the inevitable had happened so long before he'd expected it to – to take note of how good Starsky felt, how he tasted, how much like coming home it felt to be being kissed by the person who was everything in the world and more. Before, he'd jerked back and apologised and left the room, too flustered for any other response. Now -

Now he feels Starsky's fingers stroke down his face, and then Starsky draws away just far enough to smile at him. “Hey.”

Hutch heaves a weary sigh and leans forward so their foreheads rest together, the air between them warm. “I didn't freak out because I didn't want it,” he says quietly. Honesty is always best, with Starsky; how could he have forgotten that? “I freaked out because – this is going to sound stupid. I know you're – in love with me.”

“That's been the idea,” Starsky murmurs, face alight with affection.

“And I'm in love with you, and it's fantastic, Starsk, it's like – like everything makes sense, I just – I'm afraid.”

“Been a few years,” Starsky says.

Hutch has only been admitting it to himself for a few months, but he knows, and it's useless to pretend he doesn't, so he nods. “Guess I kind of like not knowing for sure,” he murmurs. “In case it – breaks the spell, huh?”

“Ain't no spell,” Starsky says, fiercely. “Listen, Hutch, it's Christmas, and I want to kiss you again. That goin' to work out?”

Hutch closes his eyes and feels the snowflakes melting on his unprotected hands, on the tiny space at the back of his neck where Starsky's fingers don't cover the skin. He is tired, so tired of pretending. “It might,” he says.

“Might?” Starsky's voice is teasing.

“Okay,” Hutch says, and breathes in the air that Starsky breathes and presses them cheek to cheek, moment to moment, skin to skin while the world grows still and at peace. “Okay. It will.”


End file.
